Aningan had become the silent sort. The great journey from home to the  Land of the Cold—where the ice often hurt his softened paw pads—had exhausted him so greatly that it seemed as if he might still be recovering; the exhaustion was not something that he fully recognised or understood, he only realised that doing much of anything just felt strange to him. But things were gradually beginning to click within his mind and he was growing more aware, driven less by instincts as his ability to reason awoke and grew—though that sort of thinking could never replace that which was engraved deeply into his being.

The child set out that evening with few intentions in mind. His nose drew him forth into previously unexplored—by him, that is—areas. There were so many scents that he could not match images to and so much to follow and see. He pranced onward with the desire to witness it all, his surroundings entirely unnoticed—all he focused his sight on was the path directly in front of him.